


Amsterdam

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly Dubious Morality, Munchies., Mutual Seduction While Stoned, Silliness., dope, stoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is to "stories" kind of what "My Dinner with Andre" is to movies. It's not not-a-story. But it's a story that gets where it's going the long way, and without a clear or evident thesis a lot of the time, and the real point is watching two characters who both fully intended to seduce each other anyway do so while flying higher than a weather satellite. It's not non-consensual, nor will either character feel much regret, guilt--or blame the other. It is what it is, and they are what they are, and they both knew more or less what they were doing without always necessarily saying so, though it was all a bit murky once the bong came out. </p><p>I don't know much about why I wrote it except that I do not use dope for reasons at least somewhat like Mycroft's. Legal or not I don't have fun. Being fairly sure you've forgotten how to breathe just puts a damper on things....And starting there, I ended up in...</p><p>Amsterdam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amsterdam

They were supposed to be headed undercover in the Netherlands, passing as Eurotourists of a certain age and class—which, as Lestrade had quickly pointed out, meant of necessity they would be going to the “coffee shops” and indulging in activities illegal in Ye Jolly Olde Englande.

Mycroft dithered, though, during the planning session, and fussed, and suggested that he be the “disapproving partner” in the quest for chemical adventure. Lestrade rolled his eyes and huffed and pointed out that all it took was one wet blanket to keep the very sort of people they were looking for from coming around. “You can’t be a wet-blanket,” he said. “If you sit there scowling like a spinster school teacher or a particularly retro vicar they’re going to run the other way.”

“But it’s not a universal activity,” Mycoft whined. “Not everyone indulges.”

Lestrade looked at him repressively. “We’re late-middle-aged, middle-class men. Gay. We’re in the Netherlands to strike a few more things off our bucket list. Mike, even if you’re the repressed partner, who’s never sullied his precious pure temple of a body with dope, you’re going to try it here and now. And if you don’t, we might as well not go, because we won’t get the lead we want to the bigger fish. We know the same dealer who’s providing most of the hash in Amsterdam is also running that designer crap Sherlock was idiot enough to try last month. He’s still talking to little pink elephants, and it’s an open question whether he will ever stop. So—are you going to join me presenting a unified Cheech-and-Chong front, or am I going to have to draft someone less prissy, like Mrs. Hudson, and leave you home?”

Mycroft scowled, and fussed, and stomped around his office, and even managed a convincingly Sherlockian flounce or two. He refused to meet Lestrade’s eyes. He pouted.

Lestade, fascinated and amused, waited him out, sipping tea poured from a seemingly bottomless flask Anthea had brought in earlier. Mycroft could be a bit of a prig sometimes—but honestly, not often. He valued truth and realism too highly to place “ought to be” over “is.” And he understood the demands of undercover work.

When the other man finally came to rest behind his desk and slowly sank into a blue funk, staring forlornly at the back wall of the office, Lestrade tried again.

“So—coming with, or staying home, hot-shot?”

“Kindly remove that tasteless phrase from your vocabulary. Good lord, you make me sound like some urchin from a sixties movie—two teeth missing, fringe shagged over my eyes, and trailing around after the hero of the movie shouting ‘Come back, Shane, come back!’” He sniffed, and scowled…but the effect was half-hearted compared to earlier. When Lestrade just stared at him in pointed patience, he sighed.

“Staying….Going… I—“ He stopped, gathered himself, and started again. “I suppose it ought properly to be up to you,” he said, sourly.

Lestrade leaned back and hooked the heels of his shoes on the edge of Mycroft’s desk, balancing his mug on his belly. He studied the other man, grinning at the disapproving glare he was giving Lestrade’s feet. “Why up to me?”

“It’s a medical issue,” Mycroft muttered, suddenly sly-eyed and evasive.

“Give, or I’ll go from ‘hot-shot’ to ‘l’il pal.’”

The sound that came across the desk properly ought to have come from an infuriated Siamese cat—but, then, the expression on Mycroft’s face was furiously Siamese-cattish, too, so perhaps they were a matched set…

“Come on…”

Mycroft gave in, shoulders slumping. He mumbled something incoherent.

“What’s that?”

“I’m…allergic.”

“You mean you puff up and your eyes squeeze shut and I have to stab you with an epi-pen?” Lestrade would immediately concede that was a deal breaker.

“Erm…no…”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s kind of the extreme but logical meaning of ‘allergic,’ isn’t it?”

“Not precisely allergic, then. Not as such. Just…sensitive.”

“Mycrooooooft—you’re stalling.”

“Well if you’d stop badgering me!”

“Mike…”

“Mycroft.”

“Micky, love…”

“All right,” he exploded, in a flustery, blustery blend of misery and annoyance and embarrassment. “I’m a short-hitter, all right? One hit is all it takes and I’m down for the count. And it does…things…to me.”

“What kind of things.”

“Embarrassing things.”

Now he was too intrigued to stop prying, in spite of suspecting this was another possible deal breaker. “Go on. Tell Unka Greg…”

The glare was still more feline. “You are not my Uncle.”

Lestrade grinned. “Could be.”

“No.” The voice was adamant. “Never.” Then Mycroft sighed again, and said wearily, “I get passive—limp as a wet dish towel. No resistance whatsoever. And…” he grimaced, and said with pained reluctance, “It does things to my mind.”

“That’s generally why people take drugs, Mike.”

The eye-roll was black-belt: a perfect example of its kind.

“So? How does it do things to your mind?”

Another eye-roll, this one with a terminal glance to the heavens.

“Mike…”

“All right. I do things like think I’m forgetting to breathe. And my senses are all exaggerated—not just food, I know about the munchies, but sounds, feelings. And… all right, it’s stupid, but I get…”

Mycroft stopped, blushing a vivid red that covered his cheeks like sunburn.

Lestrade studied him, considering what might be flustering his friend and partner. “Yeah? What?”

“I get horny, dammit,” Mycroft snapped. “And I’m too stoned to do anything about it. And too hypersensitive to like it much. And anyway, I’ve got the munchies and I can’t recall how to breathe, so it never does happen. And I’m basically miserable and hyperaware and limp and horny and afraid I’m going to suffocate for an hour or so. So I tried it enough times to be sure it wasn’t going to stop, and then decided to give it a miss. Some people are not meant to be stoners. It’s not like I can help it…”

He spoke with an embarrassment native to those who came of age in the the West in the late 20th Century, when it was one thing to avoid drugs on moral, legal, or medical grounds—but definitely another because you didn’t have what it took to be stoned without a nanny to look after you.

Lestrade was fighting back giggles, knowing damned well now why the other man had avoided the entire issue for years—and wanted to avoid it when undercover.

“Did Sherlock have the same reaction?” It was an interesting question—it was too easy for Lestrade to imagine Sherlock pursuing dope out of burning curiosity about the exact same symptoms that discouraged Mycroft. But the other man shook his head, and said, dolefully, “No such luck. It turns him into a party animal. He _dances.”_ He said the words with profound dismay.

“Well—he’s a good dancer.”

“One is usually supposed to be properly attired for the event.”

Lestrade considered. “You mean like, you’re supposed to be dressed in the first place before you shake your booty down?”

“Mmmm. Rather.”

It took awhile for Lestrade to stop snorking and coughing and gasping, and even longer to mop up the mess of exhaled tea from the desk and Lestrade’s suit. “Yeah, ok. Trust the Holmes Boys. Sherlock does the stripper version of Saturday Night Fever, and you’re lying on the couch hot and horny and too stoned to move. I love it.”

“Well, I don’t,” Mycroft snapped.

“Ever do anything at all about it?”

“Such as what?” Mycroft asked, with his nose in the air and his most prim behavior to the fore.

“Such as get stoned with someone who was in on the problem. At the very least you should have ended up with a memorable shag.”

Oh, the pinkness. Oh the shy eyes.

Lestrade didn’t quite exhale all the new cup of tea, but it was a close call. Mycroft had to come over and help pat off the puddles and stains.

Lestrade slipped one finger into the upper edge of his neat waistcoat, and tugged. “What say we go to Amsterdam early, Mike? Practice. See what happens when you’re with someone who’s ready for it, yeah?”

Mycroft froze. “Are you, er…suggesting we…”

“Passin’ as a gay couple anyway.”

Pink. The pretty, pretty pink skin. The tip of the nose!

“God, you’re beyond precious,” Lestrade muttered, laughing. He touched Mycroft’s nose, one finger on the burning tip. “Think about it—at the very least, it would make the whole ‘bucket list’ thing more convincing. I can imagine it now—consultations with the café managers about what blends and strains are most likely to give you a good high. Discussions about whether to pursue the—“

“Shut. Up.”

Mycroft was a wreck. Lestrade was charmed. He’d turned Mycroft Holmes into a wreck! Who knew?

He shrugged. “Or you could stay home and let me work with someone who’s not…chemically compromised.”

Evil, evil blue Siamese eyes. The man had a future as an understudy if they ever brought Disney’s version of the Aristocat’s KIDS over. He’d be perfect as one of the Siamese Twins!

“I’ll get back to you,” Mycroft said, and snapped his laptop shut. “Now, I have to be on my way to a meeting over at Whitehall. When you’re done gibbering and pouring tea over yourself Anthea will see you out.” He strode off, and all Lestrade could do was admire the desperate—and very feline-attempt to radiate masculine affront. Such posture! Such a high head! Such a tight little arse!

Later that night, though, Lestrade wondered what he’d got himself into. He closed his eyes, and imagined Mycroft—sprawled limply in a café chair, eyes burning with longing, malleable and passive and willing and sensitive to the least touch….

Fuck me, he thought, worried at last.

Then, with more fervor and less irony, he thought again, “God. Fuck me…”

He waited for an email from Mycroft calling off and assigning another agent to work with Lestrade. Not, of course, Mrs. Hudson—Mrs. Hudson was not agent material, for all her nerve and spine. But perhaps Anthea could manage it?

She’d be a fun partner, Lestrade assured himself. Hell, she’d be fun even if she got hot and horny like Mycroft.

She might even be especially fun.

He found he didn’t care as much as he’d have expected. What he cared about was no message from Mycroft. He shot off a text.

We’ve got to finalize plans for the Netherlands: GL

Finalized a week ago. Anthea will send you our tickets. Rendezvous at Dover on the 15th MH

You’re going? GL

Yes. MH

What about…you know? GL

My problem, not yours. MH

Yeah, right, Lestrade thought, and imagined his now official mission partner slurping down reverse-aphrodisiacs by the jug-full.

He might do himself damage. Lestrade would have to steal the jug and throw away the meds. And then they’d be back where they were.

Gosh, said his inner stroppy brat, what a shame. No doubt you’ll be crushed.

It’s my job to look out for him, he told the brat. He’s my friend. And my partner.

And you don’t find the notion of exploring a liquid, molten, stoned-out-of-his-gourd horny Mycroft Holmes the least appealing, do you?

He sulked and refused to listen to his inner stroppy brat anymore.

He packed for the trip. He pretended not to make use of his classification as field commander to check that Mycroft hadn’t picked up any last-minute medical prescriptions. No anti-aphrodisiacs were to be seen. Neither, he noted with some smug satisfaction and some guilt, were any sexually transmissible diseases.

He absolutely had not meant to check that detail, he assured himself. But, still…they were both clean of disease. This was always cheering, wasn’t it?

He told himself he packed several little extra tubes of lubricant just in case he needed to wank in the loo of the ferry. Or at some other unspecified moment when it would be appropriate and not endanger the mission, which was indeed longer and earlier than originally planned, and why did Mycroft do that, anyway? More time to struggle with the dope, after all…

Which dope he’s going to struggle with we’d best not specify, the inner brat shouted, managing to be heard even over Lestrade’s mental barriers.

They met at Dover. Mycroft had chosen a comfortable mid-range sedan for their trip, perfectly in keeping for their cover identities. It even showed signs of being owned and used by a couple like they were supposed to be. There was footie gear in the boot, and a gym bag that had to belong to Mycroft’s cover persona on the back seat. Cigarettes stamped out in the driver’s ash tray. A conflict of CDs battling for space in the between-seat console: Clash for Lestrade, Mumford and Sons for Mycroft; Amy Winehouse for Lestrade, Fleet Foxes for Mycroft; Björk for Lestrade, a collection of renditions of Beck’s “Song Reader” by a range of artists for Mycroft.

A proper box of tissues and a proper car trash bag—obviously the doings of Mycroft’s cover persona. A Hawai’ian hula-dancer toy stuck to the dashboard, endlessly shimmying—equally obviously Lestrade’s cover’s contribution.

And so it went.

It felt good, he thought, having reviewed things as they waited for the ferry. They were properly packed. They had their ID and backup ID because you never knew. The critical authorities in the Netherlands were aware they were there, and had their backs.

“You’re worrying too much,” Mycroft murmured. He was leaning against the sedan reading a paperback through near-black clunky sunglasses. He had zinc ointment on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing long, light chinos and sleek Italian loafers and a polo shirt. He’d moved his ring from his right-hand ring finger to his left. He looked like he should be someone’s beloved husband: well worn-in, comfortable, confident.

“Just making sure we didn’t leave anything behind.”

“Only our worries,” Mycroft chirped, and gave a brittle, artificial smile—followed by a far more convincingly domestic little grin.

Lestrade huffed—it was in character, he told himself.

The ferry arrived.

They went aboard with the sedan.

The ferry departed.

Lestrade, growing seasick within minutes of leaving the pier, got out of the car and scrambled for the top deck. Once there he pulled a peppermint from his pocket and planted himself in the prow, against the rail, staring into the distance and breathing fresh air. He knew the routine….

“I didn’t know you got seasick,” Mycroft murmured a good half-hour later.

“Don’t shout. If we were married you’d know.”

“I would if you ever took me anywhere.” The spousal whine was utterly convincing. Lestrade choked back a laugh.

“Yeah. I’m seasick.”

“You should have taken—“

“Puts me to sleep. And I still feel sick.”

“Ginger?”

“Tastes quite good when drunk by the rail on the prow. Otherwise? Nada.”

“Those elastic wrist-band thingies?”

“Nope.”

“Poor you.”

“We all have our sensitivities.’

“Just so.”

The subject was closed—at least in theory. In fact it hovered.

“How long till we’re in Calais?” Lestrade asked.

“Not too long.”

“Ok.” He practiced breathing.

“Poor lad,” Mycroft said, and performed the husbandly maneuver of slipping an arm around his waist, the other arm through Lestrade’s, and leaning softly against him. “You’ll feel better once we’re ashore.”

Lestrade had to admit, the man was damned good at playing a part. He was half convinced they’d been married for years…

He nodded, silent, and slipped his free hand over Mycroft’s.

He thought scandalous, salacious thoughts about getting to Amsterdam and buying Mycroft a nice marijuana brownie.

You’re really fascinated, aren’t you? Inner stroppy brat was fascinated by Lestrade’s fascination. Inner stroppy brat sounded a lot like Sherlock. Lestrade banned him again. Not that it seemed to do any lasting good…

They stood together till the Tannoy squalled that they’d make landfall in fifteen minutes.

They were in Amsterdam by eight.

“Dinner?”

“Reservations are made,” Mycroft said, and proceeded to sweep Lestrade away to Vis aan de Schelde, proclaiming in a trumpeting voice that he was sure Lestrade would finally like fish if he just had it properly prepared. Lestrade managed to hold back the laughter, knowing perfectly well that Mycroft knew perfectly well that he loved fish—all fish. Oysters, eels, fish and chips, sprats, whitebait…

It was a hell of a dinner. Lestrade decided that he even liked fish in vinegar and sour cream sauce…

Mycroft bought a packet of mints, though, and handed them to Lestrade. “Fish dinner ends when you leave the table,” he said firmly.

Lestrade agreed, unwrapped one, and tipped the rest into his pocket. He’d be exceptionally well set for the ferry ride home, he thought.

“Coffee shop next?” he asked Mycroft teasingly.

“Why not?” Mycroft said, not meeting his eye. “Sure. Of course. Why ever not?” He sounded like what he was supposed to be, Lestrade thought with sudden fondness: an inexperienced and unconfident neophyte giving way to his partner’s desire to sample Amsterdam’s notorious wares, and trying to put on a brave face.

He even seemed to have a faint shiver down cold. His hand shook in Lestrade’s.

Lestrade imagined his partner: a bit dazed, a bit dopy, his edges softened, his movements languid.

He licked his lips and flagged down a cab.

Once they were there he bought like the tourist he was supposed to be: cannabis this and cannabis that. Cannabis pastries. Cannabis boiled sweets. A couple of cannabis lollies. He shoved the pastries into his jacket pocket, where they were likely to be safe, and dumped the hard candies into his trouser pockets. Then he paid for a water pipe and a load for the bowl. The shop owner lit it for him, and he hurried back to the table.

He took a toke and passed it to Mycroft.

Mycroft managed to half-choke. Then he tried again, doing better. He handed it back.

They took turns till the bowl was empty.

“Good thing we’re taking a cab,” Lestrade murmured.

It had been years, he thought—years since he’d been a bad boy having a toke with his bad-boy mates. Once he’d joined the cops, it was off the table except for rare events like this, when a cover demanded it. Between the Met and MI5 and Mi6 there were too many bureaucratic regulations requiring him to pee into little plastic cups.

It felt better than he’d recalled—and worse. He was hazier than he’d remembered. Maybe he was just older. He was giddier. He looked at Mycroft’s face, and started to giggle, seeing the almost sweet, placid expression on his face.

He reached out and lightly traced one of Mycroft’s heavy, drooping eye-lids. “You look like a forties femme fatale,” he said, chuckling.

Watching Mycroft attempt a smile in return was like watching stop-action photography—or like watching an old Polaroid blossom into focus. It took seconds for the expression to fully arrive. “I feel like a forties feme fatale,” he drawled, amiably. “Get me home. I’m melting.”

Lestrade laughed louder. “Like the wicked witch.”

“Mmmm. Just like the witch. Or the cake out in the rain—“

“All the sweet green icing melting down…”

Both laughed—Lestrade in wild giggles, Mycroft in soft, gusty huffs.

“Get me home,” he said to Lestrade again. “I’m… I…” He frowned, then, and said, “It’s too bright. Too loud.” His voice rose, plaintive and sorrowful. He frowned at Lestrade. “Give me a peppermint,” he demanded. “My mouth tastes like sick.”

Lestrade obediently dug in his pocket, peering and frowning at the mix of candies. Peppermints from home, peppermints from Amsterdam, a confetti of candies and lollies bought just now at the counter. He picked one free. He was pretty sure it was one of his own peppermints.

Mycroft unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, sucking and rolling it with his tongue. Lestrade was aroused until the other man crunched down, mashing the peppermint to paste.

“You’re not supposed to chomp ‘em,” Lestrade protested.

“I need to go home,” Mycroft puffed out in minty melancholy. “Call the cab, Greg? Please?”

Lestrade nodded owlishly, squeezed Mycroft’s hand, and rose, moving lazily to the counter and asking for the number of a good cab service. A few moments later he drifted back to find Mycroft sitting in fluid relaxation, gazing across the street, eyes flicking rapidly from pedestrian to pedestrian.

“Eighteen. Runaway. Works in the sex industry. Hates it, poor thing,” he murmured as Lestrade sat beside him. “Fifty. Resents the tourist district but won’t take the long way home to avoid it. That one—she just lost a baby.”

“How do you know,” Lestrade asked, squinting at the young woman sitting forlornly on a street side bench.

“She told the woman who just left,” Mycroft said. “I read her lips.”

“She was speaking English?”

“Of course not, stupid,” Mycroft sighed. “Dutch.” He sniffled. “She’s so sad.”

“You’re stoned, Mike.”

Mycroft managed to coordinate a full sidewise glare, before drifting a bit. “That was the point, wasn’t it?” he asked in a muddled, misty voice. “Establish our cover. I’m the short hitter, me.”

He was  the short hitter, Lestrade thought. He knew he was flying. Dope was a lot stronger it seemed than it had been when he was a boy. But Mycroft was indeed molten.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and pulled him toward the kerb. “Cab’s on the way.”

“No picking one driven by a terrorist,” Mycroft said. “It’s too, too rom-com to pick one your enemies are driving.”

“Yeah, right,” Lestrade said—but made himself check the details of the cab pulling up. It all looked good. Of course they could just have a good cover.

“He’s one of Anthea’s,” Mycroft murmured again, then swung open the back door and tumbled into the back seat. Lestrade followed, proclaiming the address of their hotel.

The trip back seemed to go well. Unfortunately when they arrived and Lestrade fell unsteadily out onto the pavement, Mycroft remained, draped over the back like a drowsy cat.

“Come on, love,” Lestrade said, grabbing Mycroft’s wrist and tugging gently.

“Can’t.”

“Yeah, you can.” He tugged harder, and felt Mycroft go rigid.

“No. I can’t,” Mycroft said, voice shaking. “I can’t remember how to move.”

Lestrade blinked. “Wha’?”

“I can’t remember how to move,” Mycroft said, voice rising. Then, panic rising in his eyes, he said, “What if it sticks? What if I still can’t remember after?”

“Shhh,” Lestrade said. He shoved extra money at “Anthea’s cabdriver.”

“Give us a minute, yeah?” He turned back to Mycroft, who was panting his fear as he stayed, sprawled and unsure. “Shhh,” he said again. “This is like forgetting how to breathe, Mike. Just the dope talking, yeah? You’ll be fine.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You will be. Hey, catch.” He tossed a plastic-wrapped candy at Mycroft, and was relieved to watch reflexes take over as the man’s hands rose to snatch it out of the air—a move more graceful and successful than usual as the drug kept him from second-guessing his own catch. “See? You’re OK. Give me your hand, now, and I’ll help you out.”

Mycroft mumbled agreement, and stuck out a hand. Together they levered him out of the car and onto the pavement. Lestrade let the taxi go, then, and fished in his pockets till he found their room card.

“Come on, sweetheart. Going to get you upstairs to a cup of tea.”

“It’s too bright,” Mycroft said, peering around the pavement with vexed eyes.

“Yeah. Come along.”

Mycroft was querulous and worried, and he felt soft and cushiony when Lestrade guided him, one arm around the other man’s shoulders.

“Here we are. Yeah, you lean on the wall. Ok—door’s open. Light’s on. In you go…”

Mycroft tumbled to the surface of the second double bed, sighing pleasure. “Oh, God. It feels goooooooood.”

“That’s right, sweetie. I’m getting us some tea, yeah?”

“In Amsterdam—bet there’s nothing but coffee.”

“Bet it will be good coffee.”

“You’ll win your bet.” Mycroft frowned, then. “I hurt,” he said.

“Hurt?”

“It always hurts when I get stoned,” Mycroft said.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“I always forget.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mycroft frowned. “I think my filters are fried,” he said, and grimaced. “God. My shoulders hurt. My back hurts. Even my stomach muscles hurt.” He whined and curled like Lestrade’s ex-wife having a bad period. “Hurts.”

Lestrade sat beside him. “I don’t get it.”

“All the little aches,” Mycroft whines. “All the aches I ignore every day. I can’t ignore them.” He looked reproachfully up at Lestrade. “Why can you ignore them?”

Lestrade couldn’t even figure out what he was talking about. What aches?

“Do you need a massage? A backrub?”

“No,” growled Mycroft, bitterly. “It’s all your fault, you know. Now I’m horny. I hurt and I can’t remember how to move and I’m horny and it’s all your fault and now you go and offer a ‘massage.’”

Lestrade gaped, unsure of himself now. “You’re horny?” In his experience “horny” didn’t usually look and sound like that.

Mycroft pouted. “Mmmm. Go away.” He curled tight around himself. “I’ll sleep it off.”

Lestrade silently rubbed his hand up and down the long bent comma of Mycroft’s spine. “Sorry,” he said, helplessly.

“No you’re not. You wanted me horny. I told you it was no use,” Mycroft said, face muffled in the pillow.

“Let me help get you out of your things.”

Oh, those blue eyes—glaring daggers.

“You’ll sleep better.”

Daggers. Stilettos. Poignards.

Then he wilted. “Oh, all right.” Then he squirmed against Lestrade’s still-stroking hand, and husked wearily, “Higher. Shoulders. Knots like cable.”

Lestrade found himself smiling gently. He rolled the curled hedgehog over and gently uncoiled him, finding his shirt buttons and easing him out. Shoes had to go. Then trousers, then vest and socks..

“Want a shower?”

“Want an aspirin.” Mycroft’s voice was hazy, but not quite as gone as even ten minutes before.

“I’ll see if we’ve got paracetamol packed.”

Lestrade rummaged through their ditty-bag, found the pain killers, dealt out two, collected a glass of water, and came out to join Mycroft, who’d sat up at last and who was smoothing his clothes and folding them with a rather obsessive focus. Lestrade budged him over to get an empty space, brushing a scrap of cellophane from the coverlet as he settled. “Here—I think you’re beginning to come down, now.” He offered the pills and the water, and smiled as Mycroft took the meds.

“A bit, I think,” Mycroft agreed, and grimaced wryly. “I told you it was bad.”

“Could have been worse.”

“Not much,” Mycroft observed. “You didn’t even get to take vile advantage of me.”

“Or you of me. I’m stoned, too,” Lestrade said. “And I put more effort in. I’ll be flying longer.” He manufactured a patently false “pity me, pity me” face. “I’m stoooooned.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Mycroft said—and leaned close, brushing his lips over Lestrade’s.

“Oh,” Lestrade said, blinking.

“It is what you were hoping for,” Mycroft said, voice half asserting, half asking.

“Of course he was,” the inner brat snapped. “He’s been impossible ever since you told him dope made you horny.”

Mycroft frowned, then said, warily, “I’ve heard of the Royal ‘we.’ Not the Royal third person, though.”

Lestrade flushed and dug a peppermint out of his pocket. He unwrapped it, watching Mycroft watching him. He slipped it in his mouth, and frowned.

Cherry, he thought, then said, “I was just thinking to myself.”

“You think to yourself in third person?”

“It’s the inner brat. He sounds like Sherlock.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “That would explain it.” He closed his eyes. “It’s worse than it was when I was younger,” he said, querulously. “I mean, it is…isn’t it?”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Get higher faster.”

Mycroft frowned, and said blurrily, “In waves.” Then he leaned against Lestrade, wrapped his arms around him, and sighed happily. “Be over it soon.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade tipped the other man’s face back, and placed his own kiss on Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft frowned. “It’s really a waste of time,” he said. “Stoned I’m too lazy. Straight I’m too shy.” He said it easily and casually, as though he was stating the time or asking for a cup of tea.

Lestrade, still feeling the rolling warmth of his own high, just kissed him again. Only then did he say, “Almost straight. Sweet spot. Got to move while we’re both just right…” He slid down, then, and drew Mycroft with him.

Mycroft’s back was bare and smooth. Mycroft’s front was full of interesting features: freckles. Nipples. A navel. Deep hollows over his clavicles. A long, lovely throat. A long, lovely something else at the other end of his body.

Lestrade felt like confetti was sprinkling all over his thoughts—gaudy, glittery, bright. He giggled, and pulled Mycroft further.

Mycroft was like a platinum fox coat—heavy and boneless and warm and silken, seductive to Lestrade’s fingers.. He draped on the bed and watched Lestrade explore his body, eyes attentive, lids low and heavy, mouth seeming far more full than his thin lips actually justified. His forelock tumbled over one brow.

“Forties femme fatale,” Lestrade said, then ducked again, suckling on one of Mycroft’s nipples. The little knob was already tight, and he could hear Mycroft gasp and hum when he tugged against the stiff flesh, pinning it gently but firmly between tongue and teeth. The taller man was supple and relaxed. He hummed as Lestrade touched him. Even the faintest touches seemed to draw a ready murmur, a sexy little shudder.

“Tha’s nice,” he gasped as Lestrade’s hands dove lower, tickled and crept, stroked.

“You’re hard,” Lestrade said.

“I’m stoned,” Mycroft murmured and shut his eyes. He began to sing, softly, wordless la-la-la purling from his throat.

“Fuck me,” Lestrade said.

“I told you,” Mycroft said, stopping the song. “I’m stoned. I’m horny. I told you.”

“No. I mean, really. Might as well use it.”

“Too lazy,” Mycroft muttered. “Can’t remember how to move.”

“Fuck that,” Lestrade said. He frowned, dug in his pockets, and pulled out a handful of candies. He poked through cautiously.  “Ah-hah,” he grumbled, and twisted the cap off the little tube of lubricant. “Knew I had it.”

He slicked it over Mycroft’s cock, grinning dopily as he listened to singing get tangled with moaning, and both get tangled with staggering, confused breaths.

He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his jacket, trousers and pants, and swung a leg over. Laughing at his own little joke, he met Mycroft’s doped eyes, and said cheerfully, “Fuck me!” Then he made a passable effort to line them both up, and slid down Mycroft in glorious stages, the dope seeming to send brilliant haloes of feeling around each motion.

Mycroft’s eyes had gone huge, then clamped shut. He groaned and rammed upward, out of control. Words were apparently no longer things for Mycroft. He was sticking to vowel sounds and gutterals.

Lestrade was more verbal. A string of jabber began, picking up as he gripped his own cock and matched rhythm to rhythm. “Knew it would be great, knew it, God-Jesus, like heaven, listen to you—la-la-la-ahhhhhh, you’re sweet as honey, honey.” He leaned down, cherry-flavored lips meeting raspberry. “Sweet as candy, dandy.” He pulsed his torso in waves and clenched as hard as he dared, hearing Mycroft wail even as the man’s body continued to lie in graceful, supple relaxation beneath him, hips rocking but spine easy and supple as a fresh green willow-wand, with no tension in it.

“Hurts,” Mycroft murmured again, recovering meaning.

“Sorry,” Lestrade, even doped, staggered to rise from off of him.

“No, no, it’s the damned ache,” Mycroft said, He whimpered. “Old aches from tense all day, every day. Just hurts when I can’t filter it out.”

Lestrade still didn’t get it—but he understood he wasn’t supposed to get up. He rocked, and watched Mycroft’s face pucker as he gnawed his lower lip.

Lestrade ran his free hand over his lover. He watched each motion reflected in Mycroft’s face—brows rose, fell, mouth opened and sighed.

He seemed to glow in the light of the hotel room.

Sex seemed to glow.

Lestrade felt himself fall out of control. Stoned, he grabbed for coverage, a lifetime of comparative poverty assuring him he didn’t want to ruin the hotel linens. He draped himself with his shirt, then came. Lights shot behind his eyes. Below him Mycroft continued to rise and fall, rise and fall, steady and happy and humming.

Lestrade drooped, spent but still stoned. Beneath him Mycroft continued his contented surge, slow rollers of desire lifting him and lowering him.

Lestrade, finished with his own orgasm, started to roll away.

Mycroft murmured a sad little grumble.

Smiling, Lestrade returned, shifting his weight to maintain contact and pressure. He closed his eyes. He was still relaxed. Still at ease. Nothing hurt—it was even nice, especially when one wave hit his prostate. He watched Mycroft’s face below him, the button placket of Lestrade’s shirt lying just under his chin like the top edge of a sheet.

His face looked different, stoned, Lestrade thought. Then he tried to decide if it was the dope or the sex. Which eased the tight, tense expression from his face? Which soften the line of his lips, and turned them pink and tender? Which made his eyelids seem heavier and his lashes longer and more fan-like?  Which drove the heart and the lungs and sent the gentle, aimless hum of happiness through the room?

Lestrade slid his hands under the shirt, indifferent to the sticky patches of come that touched his knuckles and the backs of his hands. Instead he was finding his way around Mycroft’s body, by touch not sight. He revisited his nipples, rolling them and grinning as Mycroft’s face crumpled in concentrated desire. He stroked into the man’s navel, crept down between them and lower, finding his balls. Each motion, each discovery, was reflected.

“As above, so below,” Lestrade chortled to himself, giddy and gleeful and more than a little goofy.

“Huh?” Mycroft said, eyes opening. He focused on Lestrade’s face, frowned trying to sort out the meaning of the vision—then, as he came to a conclusion it triggered something unspoken within, and he came with a wail and a spasm that almost knocked Lestrade from his perch.

He clung, bent over and gripping Mycroft’s arms tight enough to leave bruises, while the tidal wave and aftershocks roiled under him.

“Done?” he finally asked.

“What?” Mycroft said, confused.

“Are you done?”

“Are you really Lestrade?”

“Mycroft?”

“I’m stoned.”

“Me, too.”

“I always get horny when I’m stoned. But not usually this confused.”

Lestrade smiled at the uneasy face below him. “Was it good?”

Mycroft made a face and rolled his eyes. “I’m STONED,” he said, “Of course it was good. I’m hungry.”

“Have a candy,” Lestrade said, and groped till he found his trousers. He dug in the pocket and handed one to Mycroft, who tore away the wrapper and popped the candy in his mouth.

“Good. Mint. Last one was raspberry.”

“My last one was cherry.”

“Appropriate.”

“Not a virgin,” Lestrade said. Then, wary, “Were you?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course not. But we haven’t slept together. That makes the cherry all right, doesn’t it?”

“Should. I’m hungry. Let’s have dinner.”

“We just had dinner.”

“No, we just fucked.”

“Before that. We had fish.” Mycroft smiled in hazy pride and contentment. “I know. I made the reservations. I knew you’d like fish.”

“But now I’m hungry.”

“Me, too.” Mycroft frowned. “We need food.”

“I’ve got candy.”

Mycroft made a face. “No. Real food. I’m ravenous.”

“I have pastries in my jacket,” Lestrade said, frowning as he tried to recall what was special about the pastries. “I put them in my jacket so I wouldn’t squish them,” he said, jubilant when he recalled that detail.

“Meat,” Mycroft grumbled. Then, “I’m too lazy to get food.”

“I’ll call room service.”

Mycroft’s eyes popped open. “Oh! I love you!”

Lestrade snorted. “I know that.”

“No, I mean—I really love you. That’s a great idea!” With sober intensity, he said, “Bitchin’, dude!”

Lestrade chuckled, and hunted for the courtesy phone on the bedside table. “What do you want?” he asked Mycroft.

“Meat,” the other man growled again.

“You’ve got enough meat already.” Lestrade writhed, then frowned. “Oh. Fallen out. Sorry…”

“That’s not meat,” Mycroft said, “That’s jelly roll. Want meat.”

Between them they came up with a breakfast order of ham, bacon, beefsteak, scrambled eggs, and two sides of sausage. And orange juice.

Lestrade, tottering, managed to go to the door to fetch the food. Mycroft continued to lie like a recumbent male odalisque. His hands, his arms, his legs all made gentle calligraphic gestures against the coverlet.

Lestrade dragged back the tray, balancing it on Mycroft’s chest.

“Hungry,” Mycroft pouted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade said, and fed him a sausage one bite at a time, letting the other man lick the grease off his fingers when he was done. His cock stirred and came to a soft half-mast. He picked up a piece of bacon, bit, and moaned as the salt-sweet-meat burst his mind open and set free cascades of bright confetti senses. “Oh, my God. Hungry!’

Mycroft giggled, and sang back, “Munchies!”

They met each other’s eyes. Neither could later say who began, but soon they both sang, “Stoned! Soooooo stoned!” together, voices happy.

They ate. They ate some more. Mycroft shimmied out from under the tray as Lestrade held it up, and both ate with their fingers, snapping up quarters of complimentary toast and jam, eating scrambled egg with their fingers, guzzling down orange juice.

“Good,” Mycroft said. He sucked his own fingers clean—then grabbed Lestrade’s hand and sucked off traces of bacon fat, humming happily.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft’s stomach. The man was slim enough that he could see the firm, round curve of Mycroft’s full tummy. He smiled and absently reached out, stroking and patting. He watched Mycroft wriggle like a happy pup at the caress.

“Shower?” he asked.

‘Too tired,” Mycroft mumbled. “Need sleep.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’m going to shower,” he said, then crept off the bed. He collected the tray and put it on the suite table. He walked to the bathroom, peed, then walked back, forgetting the shower.

Mycroft was nestling into his bed, fluffing pillows and arranging covers.

Lestrade crept into the other side of the bed.

Mycroft frowned, confused. Then he shrugged, and curled into the other man, and they wove their limbs around each other.

“Who’s gonna turn out the light?” Lestrade muttered.

“Don’ give a damn,” Mycroft muttered back.

And then both slept.


End file.
